Scary Monsters and Super Freaks
by MWellsey
Summary: Arkham's doors are ripped open, and Batman must run the gauntlet once again. But everything is connected, so who is the mastermind this time? There's a whisper loose in Gotham, and everything is falling into place according to his design. Can the Bat-clan rally round and contain the outbreak before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

Scary Monsters and Super Freaks.

**Author's note: The following tale takes place in a slightly altered continuity. Its set some time after the events of Hush, and Gordon is still Commissioner. Stay with me, ok? **

Chapter 1.

"So, am I talking to...'Two-Face'—or Harvey Dent?" Doctor Karl Pillitch looked up from his notes, to direct a baleful gaze towards his patient.

There was a slight whistling noise, as a silver dollar flipped upwards through the oppressive interview room air. Pillitch followed the coin's progress as it rose, then fell—shackled by the unbreakable bonds of gravity—with a heavy sadness in his hooded eyes.

The coin landed.

"Looks like it's Two-Face this evening Doc," The patient leaned back, the old wicker chair creaking ominously, and adding to the general aura of menace. Half his face had been theatrically concealed by shadow, but no longer. Now the whole was revealed—one side: handsome, though gaunt and worn, with neat black hair. Its opposite comprised the other half. A creation of nightmare; livid and red, scarred and twisted. The eye in that face had a mad, restless look—due in part to the absence of its eyelid—and every movement it made looked like a dying spasm.

One could not look upon former District Attorney Harvey Dent, and not be drawn to the ruined side of his once noble, striking visage. Pillitch had tried not to stare—but by God Dent didn't make it easy. The hair on the acid scarred side had somehow survived, and regrown, now bleached white, and Dent had kept it wild, contrasting with the combed perfection that was its twin. The orange Arkham jumpsuit was similarly disfigured; one side stained, stretched, burnt, torn—anything that could have been done without actually destroying it had been done. Now Dent had gotten to work on his chair, picking determinedly away at the right hand arm rest. It was time to move on.

"So Harvey," Pillitch stressed the name even as Two-Face growled—"I can see you're still 'conflicted'. The medicine my predecessor prescribed seems to have had little effect."

"If they were supposed to get rid of me, then yeah, I guess they had 'little effect'", the criminal's features twisted into a dark reflection of a smile, "But then, I didn't expect them to, seeing as how Dent didn't have the balls to take 'em. Harvey gets awfully lonely you see."

"Yes, I do see. Well, no matter—I've never taken much stock in pills. I prefer a more face to face approach in cases such as yours." Pillitch held Dent's gaze, meeting his eyes. Both of them.

"Is that all doctor." A different voice this time. Cold, brisk, but with a wealth of concealed pain. A million miles away from Two-Faces' customary growl. It wasn't really a question, more a demand.

"Yes", Pillitch sighed, "Yes that will be all. Same time next week Harvey." Then he sniffed—hard, rubbed his reddened nose.

"All right Doc?" Two-Face was back with a sneer.

"Yes. Thank you Dent. Just a dust allergy I believe."

Two-Face showed no further interest as he stalked away, flanked by the two Arkham guards he so despised.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: If you've come this far please do continue, and please do review.**

Chapter 2.

Bruce isn't talking much—and I don't know why. Yeah, he's not Mr Talkative at the best of times, but I really think something's up. Maybe he's bored. The usual suspects are all locked up—so for the last few months it's just been small fry. Apart from last bank holiday, when Calendar man showed up. Heh, Calendar man...

Or maybe he's worried. The quiet before the storm, as Alfred might say. I really hate thinking it, but having the entire rogues gallery locked up in one place is never a good idea. I can't shake the feeling that something nasty's brewing.

The rows of prisoners filed past each other- East and West block detainees passing close. For Pamela Isely, it was too close for comfort. The cat –calls and whistles had abated long ago, ever since an example had been made, and it became known that most of the freaks watched out for one another. But the leering, the aura, the hunger was still evident in the few 'normal' mental cases.

Her gaze was drawn to one inmate in particular. His eyes were stuck forward, unnaturally focused on nothing in particular. Then he was beside her- and something was being forced into her hand. Too many questions- no time- just go back to the cell. Don't acknowledge anything.

Back in her quarters, Ivy knelt on her standard issue Arkham bed, back to the reinforced door. Cupped in her hands was the message she had received, and something else. She bit her lip and stifled a laugh. A seed. One she immediately recognised as being of the 'creeper' family. The note itself was far more interesting, however. It had been balled up as much as possible, holding the seed inside it- and it read:

"Do what you do best- Janus."

Of course, she knew what it meant, and it hadn't taken her long to work out who it was from. Janus- the two –faced god of roman mythology. With an alias like that, it could only be one person. Now all she needed was a little time, and she would do what she did best. She make this little creeper grow, and grow.

It really is going to be splendid. Rat boy to get the asset in. The schizoid to pass it along. And Ivy to do the deed. She'll cause enough mayhem to make escape easy, and anyone else who had the smarts to get out too will create more leads for the cops to follow, more attention diverted away from me.

Nice move with the signing- a little extra incentive for Isley. If she's smart enough. Now all that's left is to wait- and hope the Clown doesn't foul things up. Good plan not to involve him. Bravo.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3.

This is when I think best. Not in the cave. Not brainstorming with Alfred, Tim, Dick, even Clark. In the thick of it. On my feet.

These gangbangers are no problem. Back, left, up, across. Perfect steps. I can block, counter, and hit them as easily as a chess move. Against low lives like these, my mind can focus – my body handles the fight.

Something is brewing grab fist, twist, arm broken sometimes, just sometimes – it's instinct that's right. Elbow snaps back – nose broken Arkham is seething like a spit. It's been far too quite over there. They're down. One last. Coming in fast – lead pipe And I can't have Arkham going up now, not while it's a full house grab pipe, pull him down, sweep kick to the head – solar plexus compromised – he's incapacitated. I'm finished here – and head straight to Arkham. In time, I pray.

"Oracle, get Dick on the line."

"Fools! Bullets won't harm my darlings!" Ivy could almost cry with joy. It had been so easy! Two days to ready the seed. Then, it exploded into life. The pitiful cell was a ruin in minutes – now she was outside, and in control of damn near every plant on the island, Twisting vines, great blades of grass – twined together: swinging, smashing, beating, crashing.

Guards filed forwards, feverishly blasting away at Ivy's creations – but to no avail. The inmates were free too – norms preying on the guards, the freaks preying on both. She simply stood, in the rubble of her Arkham room, free of the constrictions of the prison uniform, in the livery of her children. Then, with true sadness, she moved away, leaving behind the emotional carnage – and towards escape.

"Farewell my lovelies."

The figure that stood atop Arkham's roof was an odd one. Spindly limbs – like a spider's, and a thin, gaunt head. But the body was plump and swollen.

The Joker, the clown prince of crime, breathed deeply in the night air. A smile – calm and joyous all at once played on his lips. The screams that emanated from inky blackness were most exquisite.

Then he looked down. His life jackets, yes, he managed two, were fully inflated. A third with his legs tucked through the arm holes. An excellent find – in the supply closet. He regarded the long, long way down to the water, then took one last look back a Arkham island – he surveyed his kingdom a final time.

"Love to stay – and make myself useful – but I've really gotta be going!" he roared to the night "Places to go – bats in the belfry."

Then he skipped to the very edge – and flung himself into the deceptively calm waters below.

Harvey Dent stood, framed by the light of the prison.

A convenient gash in Arkham's walls created his chosen escape route. Two-Face surveyed the island's grounds. Something he hadn't seen in a while – the outside. Gunfire, and screaming made up the night's theme. The ground had suffered greatly – some immense force had beaten and torn at it.

Then he saw the two guards – unnaturally still, they sat at a bench, seemingly engaged in conversation.

"_Zsasz has been having fun."_ Two-Face chuckled.

"That monster." Harvey Dent spoke now, his voice was strong, but had a far-off aspect to it, as though he was locked depp in some prison of his own creation.

"_Man up Dent," _Two-Face spat the challenge, as one might spit poison, _"We go now."_

But the burly man stood stock still, in the wreckage of the wall. Then, he reached into a pocket, and drew out the silver dollar.

"Heads we go. Tails...we stay."

He tossed it. Reached out his hand. But the coin never landed. He'd been so absorbed in his confliction, that he'd failed to hear the footsteps that belonged to the man who now stood beside him.

A hand, wrapped in bandages was clenched, shielding Dent's answer.

"Come on Harvey, we can't have any of that."

"You."

"Yes, me. I'm leaving now. Feel like coming with?"

"My coin."

"Hmm? Ah yes. Of course." With the return of his most precious keepsake, Two-Face was more at ease. He stretched, cracked his knuckles.

"Got a plan?"

"Sure."

"Good. Then what are you waiting for ?"

Two-Face stalked forwards into the darkness. Followed by his new companion, who, though his face was masked with bandages – was, unmistakably: Thomas Elliot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:**** Sorry this has taken so long, but here it is, chapter four. I've got a lot already written out – so hopefully there'll be more on the way shortly. On a slightly unrelated (MARVEL) note I'm trying to start up an X-Factor Investigations RP over in the forums, so take a look if you're a fan of that series, I'd really love to get it going properly: **.net/forum/XFactor_Investigations_An_RP_forum/102672/

**And now, our feature presentation:**

Chapter 4.

"C-Commissioner. I, we..." Alec Mackenzie struggled to keep his composure, as he addressed Gotham's Premier Policeman – James W Gordon. Blood trickled freely for a vicious partially hidden by his mop of blond hair. A black eye and split lip and also adorned his features.

"At ease kid." Gordon tilted his head, trying to fix the lad with a calm stare – hard given the circumstances. "So who got you?"

"Ah, Flannegan, Sir, the ah – "

"Ratcatcher, yeah, I know. But you – "

"I got him back Sir. We locked him up again. But, uh, not before I – eh, broke his nose." Mackenzie grinned ruefully.

"Do we know who got out?" Looks like you Arkham boys pulled it together – you kept most of the norms?"

"Yeah, most – pretty near all. I-I think. But..." He touched his head, and winced.

"Take it easy kid, you don't – "

"I'm, I'm okay Sir. Okay, uh, jeez this is hard to say but..." Alec's face fell – he looked an utter wreck. "Isley, Lynns, Quinzel, uh...J-Joker, Crane, Nashton, Elliot, Dent and...Zsasz. Those – those we know for sure."

"Dammit." Gordon ran a hand through his greying hair, "Right, that's – "

" – Nothing we can't handle." Dick Grayson – or Nightwing, as Gordon and Mackenzie knew him – strode out of the gloom towards them, "Batman sends his regards Gordon, he'd be here himself – but he's assigned clean up duty to me."

"Too busy is he?" Gordon snapped – too fast. He shook his head at Nightwing's raised eyebrow, pulled off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Ah, right. Appreciate the sentiment kid, but we're about done here – 'less you want to hunt around the grounds."

"Tempting." Dick forced a chuckle, trying to tide over Gordon's discomfort, "I reckon its better that we put our heads together and work out how this thing whole shambles started."

"So if Dick's got Arkham, where d'you need me?" Tim Drake regarded his silent mentor curiously, "I assume you'll be after Hush."

"You're with me."

"Okay. Fine. So long as this isn't you trying to shield me. I can take care of myself you know."

"That's why we're doing this together. I need you in the wings. Hush is too dangerous for any one-on-one foolishness." Batman stood stock still, despite his precarious position on one of Gotham's many gargoyles. He was just...there. Watching his city. The wind blew – but his stance, his features remained rock like and stoic. "But you have to be ready. Tom is...dangerous."

"You can count on me." Trying to be light-hearted, trying to add some cheeriness to the scene (as was his custom), Tim grinned. Though he was all too aware of the gravity of the situation.

"That said. Don't attack Elliot directly." The tactician had taken over now – no compassion, no compromise, "When we encounter him, follow my lead."

"And when have I ever not done that?" Grinning again, Tim raised an eyebrow. Bruce appreciated the sentiment with a grunt.

Then he turned, and melted into the night. His cape whistled in a swirl of motion.

"Show off."

Victor Zsasz saw the world the right way. He saw the truth, and strove always to share it with others. To release his fellow men and women from their folly. And if, along the way, he indulged himself a little – that was alright – his work was art. Vincent van Gogh had not been appreciated in his own time – it was a sure sign of greatness, that Victor shared this...misfortune.

"The world just isn't ready yet." He sighed. "But they'll get there, with my help."

His breathing was shallow, and as he added another mark to his skin he felt only great pride. Another masterpiece completed. Another zombie liberated. He gazed upon it. A female. Short, dumpy, plain. Low self esteem – comfort eater. She'd squealed like a pig. So he'd cut her like one.

Now she knelt in prayer, between the shipping crates, the rosary she'd carried wrapped between her fingers.

In death, she was more lifelike. Perfect. Zsasz looked at his golden hands. He smiled, and then frowned: a shadow? No murk should fall on the great Zsasz, save that which kept him hidden from –

Rough hands span him to the side, grabbed his head, slammed it into a crate. Cartilage crumpled, bone snapped, skin tore. If it hadn't been his own body suffering Zsasz would have experienced exquisite awe from those noises.

An eye popping slam to the stomach.

"No! You can't – can't touch me! Augh!" He'd screamed – no! He couldn't scream!

"Nononononononono..." But the pounding came again and again and again. Victor balled himself up, but his attacker wouldn't relent.

The Bat! It had to be the Bat! But the Bat had never hit him so hard. Never had Zsasz felt such excruciating agony. Though his eyes were smeared with blood, he opened them – wide, wider.

It wasn't the Bat. It was –

Then Dent kicked him in the head. And Zsasz'z world turned from red, to black.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**** Here's another chapter. Yes it has been a long time, I've been very busy. I will add more depending on the reception to this instalment. Also I'm sorry about the formatting of the last few chapters, the breaks between scenes aren't showing up properly, but I'm hoping it will change this time.**

**P.S: there may be a change in tense I write in here, I'm adapting to fit the work, so bear with it please.**

Chapter 5.

"Zsasz turned up this morning. Someone beat him half to death. He's in Gotham General right now."

"Where?"

"The docks, shipping wharf. There was a vic nearby – Zsasz's own work – his M.O all over, plus he had a fresh tally mark." Gordon sighed, just seven hours back from Arkham, and the city was already testing him.

"So Zsasz claims his victim, and then gets jumped while he's distracted by the fresh kill. This third party takes him out." Batman stood on the GCPD roof, brow furrowed beneath his cowl, "Finger-prints? Any evidence left by the attacker?"

"There should have been, but the paramedics got all over the scene – any evidence will be contaminated. I'll have the lab techs look into it, but to be honest with you I don't think anyone in the department will be eager to chase down someone who's attacked Zsasz." Gordon pulled off his glasses, rubbed the lenses on his coat collar – an old habit drawn out again by the intense stress that had followed him back from Arkham.

A quiet, they both know the truth in Gordon's words.

As usual, Gordon breaks the silence.

"You know, I remember the last time this happened – a mass break out. That was Bane's work," he cleared his throat, uneasy, "We need to find out who's behind this – take out the source before you end up running a gauntlet that runs you ragged. What about Nashton? We should work on tracking him down."

"Bane's long gone. And I'm not looking for the Riddler."

"What?" Gordon scowls – and the stress and anger bubbles to the surface, directing at the Batman, because he's damned if he's going to play this his way.

He opens his mouth, ready to shout his comrade down, but when the dark knight speaks it's with an unnerving insistence.

"Hush is the priority."

Now Gordon barely keeps his cool.

"Hush? How the hell do you figure that?" he snaps, "Hush will go to ground – that what he does! When he makes his move it won't be directed at Gotham, and you'll handle it then! The Riddler, on the other hand will be diving straight back into murder, robbery – whatever the hell takes his fancy – for all we know he could be the mastermind here. And what about the Joker? Crane? Isley? Is Hush's grudge against you more important than the chaos they could cause?"

A pause. He's gone too far. He's too tired. This situation is impossible. But he can't have Nashton running riot in his city, can't have the Joker causing chaos, or Two-Face rebuilding a crime empire.

"Jim."

"Look, I-"

"Jim, you can't understand. But I need you to trust me. Hush is capable of more damage than you could ever know, and it has to be me that deals with him, and it has to be now. I need you to run the streets until I'm done with Hush. But I have Nightwing handling the Riddler. I won't let Gotham fall."

There's something in Batman's voice that stops Gordon. Not what he's saying, it's the way he's saying it. There's the most subtle inflection of pain there – a break in the mask that chills Gordon.

"Alright then. Fine. That's, that's – right." He clears his throat again, "There is something though, first – we need your help with Otis Flannegan, the-"

"Ratchatcher." In control again, all business, the Bat is in control again.

"Yes, he knows something, we're sure. But we can't crack him. He's playing cool, but something – likely someone – has him scared quiet. We have him down below and Bullock is working him, but..."

The Batman is already walking, sweeping over to the stairs leading to the GCPD's interior. Gordon sighs heavily, rubs at his glasses again, then follows him inside.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six.

**Author's Note: ****Riddler fans, rejoice. I'm rather proud of this chapter, so don't hesitate to lavish praise and/or criticism on it.**

Edward Nashton – or, as he had styled himself, Nigma – stalked down darkened corridor, illuminated only by the bright white strip lighting that hung over head, giving Nashton's already pallid complexion an unhealthy tint. The Machiavellian image he no doubt intended to display was hampered somewhat by a troublesome limp, barely compensated for by the heavy looking cane that the Riddler found himself leaning on with every step.

"Nice power walkin' boss." Chuckled one of two burly henchmen at his side.

The Riddler stopped. Blinked. Tapped the man's chest.

"Oh yeah? Well, at least I _can_ walk."

"Whassat Bo-"

With a speed that one would not expect from a man of the Riddler's gangly frame, he pulled a pistol from within his jacket, aimed, and fired a hollow point through the henchman's kneecap.

Nashton started walking again before the man had time to register the ungodly pain he was in. His incoherent screams echoed through the hallway, as he writhed, clutching at his shattered kneecap.

"Just be glad I didn't send you to Crane." Nashton muttered.

With the remaining henchman in tow, he reached the corridor's end, and, moving past an open door, entered a room. A black room, with a black chair, and several black monitors. He sat.

"N-uh, Need anything boss?" Eager to please, was this one.

"If you speak my name, I vanish. What am I?"

"Uhh, I – uh, I dunno boss..."

He shot him. On bullet, right through the head. Messy, all over the carpet. He clicked his tongue, nervously. Settled deeper into his chair. Tried to relax.

"Silence."

The Riddler sighed. No heists, no jobs, no elaborate schemes. Leave that to Ivy and the Penguin and whoever else wanted to stake a claim to Gotham. He had to lie low. Had. To. Because Elliot is out there.

Hush was in Arkham the entire time, and now ohJesusGod he's out.

The plan worked – _of course the plan worked_ –but now Hush is out there again.

So lie low.

* * *

The coin was resting on the chair's arm, which had been picked at and worried, and otherwise damaged.

"Whatever happened to Harvey Dent?" a horse whisper of a voice.

"Harv's dead, you need to stop using that name."

"What's the last thing Harvey Dent did, Two-Face."

"How the hell should I know, Bandages?"

There was a throaty chuckle, a nasty sound that spoke of a rage barely contained.

"So it wasn't Harvey that did for poor Victor Zsasz." Hush moved around the mismatched armchair that Two-Face had occupied, coming to a stop by a similar chair, which he perched on.

Two-Face reared his head in the Ex-Surgeon's direct. "The hell are you babbling about?" he snapped, eye bulging, moreso than usual.

"Nothing. Doesn't matter. What does matter is this: They're moving in tonight,"

"You're sure? Then we can – "

Hush cut in as Two-Face started up out of his chair, "Yes I'm sure, and yes you can. They'll be outside the GCPD and ready to let all hell break loose in, oh, five hours? But you need to remember the plan. Stick. To . It. Or there'll be hell to pay."

"That a threat, _Tommy?_" Two-Face snarled, his face livid and red. He leaned closer to the bandaged man, one hand creeping to the pistol at his hip.

"No." Hush smiled, his voice, as ever, like the soft rustle of sleep, "Just some sound advice."

Two-Face straightened up, features twisted into that savage mockery of a smile. "As if I need it, I've been dealing with the Bat since before you graduated from med-school." He turned on his heel and exited the room.

The coin was still resting on the chair's arm.

Beneath hi s mask of bandages, Hush's eyebrows arched. He'd never expected this part of the plan to work, could it be that Two-Face's _special treatment_ was working?

He hadn't truly expected such results from the Arkham hack.

He might just have to give the good Doctor some credit.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7.

"Bullock, take a break." Gordon leant into the interrogation room, eyes flicking over the scene inside.

"Aw come on Jim – I was just about ta – " Harvey Bullock turned pleading eyes on the Commissioner.

"Take five Harvey."

"Fine." Bullock slouched out. Otis Flannegan, alias "Ratcatcher" grinned, showing crooked, yellowed teeth. In a mocking tone he called out after the rotund detective, "See ya 'round Harvs, this's been real special, huh?" His voice was more nasal than usual, owing to the medical padding on his nose – a reminder of his encounter with Alec Mackenzie. Gordon smiled thinly; he was glad that the young guard had landed one on this cocky little bastard.

"Wanna try yer luck Jimmy?"

"Oh I'd love to Otis." Gordon's smile broadened, "But I thought you'd be more comfortable with another old friend." With that, he turned on his heel and exited the room. Leaving the door open.

Silence.

The lights flickered off.

Otis stood slowly, flinching. His nostrils flared and he sniffed involuntarily. He crept forwards, and gingerly, he wrung his manacled. What was going on? The bravado of moments before was slipping into a pit of nerves as his brain slowly began to process what was happening.

He moved forwards, the door was close, very close now. He reached out, his sweaty palms reaching out, into the dark.

Something slammed into him. Something hard and strong and black locked about his throat. He writhed and scrabbled, practically squealing as he was lifted into the air.

"Ahh – Nuuhhh!"

He flew across the room, crashing into the low table, his whole body jarring from the impact. He struggled on the floor, slipping over his own feet, his eyes blinking a staccato rhythm as he desperately tried to overcome the darkness.

A single light flicked on, revealing the shadow that fell over him.

The shadow of the Bat.

Otis Flannegan screamed as the Bat swooped down on him again, lifting him once more by the collar of his prisoner's jumpsuit. His feet dangled in the air, nearly a foot off the floor.

"Flannegan." Batman growled, "What. Do. You. Know?"

"Nuh – nuh – nothin'! I – I dunno what yer – what yer talkin' about!"

The Ratcatcher bounced off the steel table again as his tormentor threw him back, limp and feeble as his namesake.

"Oh, Guh-God. My back." The Bat moved closer, "Please, please, don't – no!"

He squirmed, writhed, held tightly in a chokehold – eyes bulging. The blades on Batman's gauntlets dug into his collarbone – the pain serving to keep him conscious, even as black spots appeared in front of his eyes.

"Please..." he rasped, "I – was just, just the messenger..." His eyes began to roll back, his voice trailed off.

Batman dropped him. Flannegan –shocked back to life – scrambled back, up against the room's wall.

"What do you mean?" the Bat growled.

"...I – I know Arkham, b-better than anyone, them vents, secret paths, all that... I get things fer people on the inside, messages, little things that my rats c-can carry."

He flinched as the Bat moved towards him again.

"Th-th-this time it was two things, a-a-a message, anna note, an'... an', a seed." He blustered, his voice cracking. "First, I was told to send my rat through a certain vent, to a spot on the island – I-I got 'em trained that good. Th-then, once I had the goods, I hadda send them on ta another cellie. Nuh-never knew his name, or who it went ta... please... thas' all I know!"

Flannegan whimpered, cowering against the wall, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

"Who?" The Bat growled.

"Wuh-what?" The Rat whimpered.

"Who gave you your orders? Tell me _now _Ratcatcher."

"I – I never! I don't!" he wailed, as Batman moved ever closer, "I can't!"

The Bat grasped Flannegan's nose, fingers locking tightly, and he began to twist. The Ratcatcher squirmed, heard cartilage beginning to crackle.

"Gaaahhh! Noooo!"

"Who?"

"Nooooo! PleaseIdon'tICAN'T"

"WHO?"

"Janus!" he screamed, his cry echoing around the cramped room. The pressure on his nose instantly relaxed, and Otis' hands flew to survey the damage.

Batman had already straightened up. "Who is Janus?"

"I dunno, I _swear_, I got no idea." He wilted under his torturer's gaze, "B-but there was this doctor, this shrink. He, he passed me the orders an' he said he was under orders f-from this Janus."

The Bat leaned towards his victim one last time.

"The doctor. Give me a name Flannegan."

"Puh – Pillitch. Karl Pillitch."


End file.
